


Privilege

by archipelago



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Potterlock, Teenlock, fuckyeahteenlock, fytl, potterlock contest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:19:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archipelago/pseuds/archipelago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock waits to speak to the Headmistress for the fourth time in two weeks--not bad, for his first year at Hogwarts.</p><p>Potterlock one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Privilege

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything relating to BBC Sherlock, any form of Sherlock Holmes, or Harry Potter.

Sherlock sits on the uncomfortable wooden chair Professor Abbott conjured out of nowhere. He shifts his weight back and forth. Waiting is definitely the worst part of getting in trouble, he decides. The actual trouble part is usually pretty fun, and although detention isn’t thrilling, it has done wonders for his reputation. He’s the only first year who’s served three detentions before the end of their second week at Hogwarts; even the other Slytherins seem intimidated by him.

Mycroft won’t stop glaring; it’s _marvelous_.

The waiting, though. He suspects that Professor McGonagall has deduced his impatience and realised that forcing him to sit outside the door to her office is a more effective punishment than scrubbing out cauldrons. 

(Actually, the cauldrons were rather interesting—he’d spent that particular detention guessing how each sixth year student had incorrectly brewed their Amortentia from the residue left behind)

If she were really interested in punishing him, McGonagall would do something truly awful, like force him to spend time with his brother. Or worse, other people. At the very least, Mycroft is occasionally amusing. There’s nothing so complimentary that can be said for anyone outside the Holmes family.

She’s going soft, Sherlock thinks, because she’s retiring at the end of the school year. She hasn’t announced anything, of course, but it’s fairly obvious. On the first evening of the term, during the Welcome Feast, she’d teared up during her address. What causes a normally stoic woman to cry? Sentiment. Why feel sentimental over the first feast? Because it was also her last.

Easy.

That’s the problem, of course. Here he’s had the last eleven years to dream about Hogwarts, and now that he’s finally arrived, everything is boring. Classes? Boring. Professors? Boring. Other students? Boring. It’s as if every professor in the school expects to be teaching brain dead morons; he’s fairly certain he nearly gave Flitwick a heart attack when, on his first day in Charms class, he was able to cast a perfect Wingardium Leviosa. It seemed a waste to try and explain that Mummy showed him how to do that spell without a wand when he was five.

The first detention had been an accident—while showing off in class he deduced a bit too much about Professor Longbottom’s relationship with Professor Abbott—but he’d gotten such a good reaming that he’s dedicated himself to cultivating as much trouble as possible ever since. After all, they can’t possibly keep him in school if he’s an unstable nuisance. He isn’t, but he’s perfectly capable of playing one convincingly enough to be released from this stupid castle.

He just wants to go home. He doesn’t miss Mummy or Father or Redbeard, of course. It’s just that everything and everyone in the immediate vicinity is stupid, so he doesn’t see why he ought to put up with it.

A sound down the corridor draws his attention. Abbott, maybe, come back to check on him? He scoffs. Like she would be able to find him if he decided to hide.

A pair rounds the corner—Filch, pinching the ear of a scrawny blond boy and dragging him down the hallway. The boy doesn’t make a sound, even when the caretaker pulls especially hard as his earlobe. Mrs. Norris trots behind them, eyeing Sherlock warily.

“Oi, what are you doing here?” Filch spits, relinquishing his hold on the other boy’s ear and then pushing him roughly into the wall directly opposite Sherlock. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Waiting for the Headmistress, obviously. Aren’t you going to conjure him a chair, too?”

Filch tilts his chin up and stares down his nose. “He ain’t done nothin’ to deserve a chair.”

“Oh,” says Sherlock, “you’re a squib.”

For a second, Sherlock thinks Filch might punch him. His mouth drops open in surprise; even Mrs. Norris seems to pause. He flushes crimson and takes a menacing step forward before quickly backing up. “That’s a rotten lie. I ought to tell the Headmistress the kind of filth you’re slinging about, you—“

“Spare me. Look—you don’t even have a wand. No holster anywhere on you. What kind of wizard goes about without carrying his wand? The kind that can’t use magic,” Sherlock waves his hand about dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. Leave now.”

“I ought to,” Filch says, looking strangely confused. He opens and closes his mouth again and again, trying to find the thing he ought to do. “I’m going to go straight to the Headmistress with this, you know. She’ll set you straight.”

With that, he turns on a heel and stalks down the hallway, Mrs. Norris following behind. To Filch’s retreating back, he mutters, “Hasn’t worked so far.”

The boy across from him stares, his shoulders tense. He slides down against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. He shoves his hand into the front pocket of his hooded jumper, pulling out his wand. He plays with it, twisting it between his fingers. It’s not a nervous habit, although Sherlock has no doubt that it soothes this boy, whoever he is. The boy’s motions are gentle, loving.

Sherlock is so caught up in watching him that he barely catches that the boy has spoken to him.

“You’re the new Holmes kid, right?”

“My reputation proceeds me,” Sherlock replies drily. He heaves a sigh, wishing that the thug—bruised knuckles, slightly bloody lip, recent fight—would not make conversation.

Apparently, this new boy isn’t interested in answering his wishes. He touches a hand to his mouth and then grimaces at what he sees when he pulls it away. “How’d you know that stuff about Filch?”

“Are you joking?”

“What? No.”

“You were literally sitting right across from me as I explained it,” Sherlock says as he rubs at his temple. “I knew he was a squib the same way I know you got in a fight over the fact that you’re a muggelborn.”

The boy tenses. His face, previously affable despite the blood and bruising, drops into a scowl. He glares and clenches his fists. “You gonna give me trouble about it?”

The thought nearly makes Sherlock laugh out loud. He’s scrawny for his age, and he knows it. This boy is at least two years older than him, and although he is short, too, he is stockier. If it came to a fight, this stranger would have every advantage. He fights the smile that threatens the corner of his mouth and manages to sound almost bored when he says, “Why would I do that? I’m a half-blood, myself.”

“Isn’t your brother Mycroft Holmes?”

“Unfortunately.”

The boy frowns. “No one has ever told me he’s a half-blood. I thought he came from a super prestigious wizarding family, or something.”

“On our mother’s side, we are descended from the noble house of Black,” Sherlock informs him. He closes his eyes, and in his mind palace, he can see the family tree extending back for generations. “My mother is an extremely powerful witch. Her specialty is arithmancy.”

“And your father?”

“Met my mother in a muggle club when they were eighteen and convinced her to run away with him two weeks later. He didn’t even know she was a witch until after the wedding.”

The boy lets out a low whistle. “Wow. Was he angry?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I’ve no idea. It’s not as though they knew each other particularly well at the time, anyway.”

They fall into silence. It hangs thick in the space between them, growing larger and larger with each uncomfortable second. Sherlock is determined not to break first—he will not be the one to bow to social convention. He will also not admit his relief when the other boy suddenly blurts out, “So how did you know that I was muggleborn, anyway?”

“Your wand.”

Across from him, the other boy curls a protective hand around his wand, as if to shield it from Sherlock’s gaze. “It’s no different than yours.”

It takes all Sherlock’s willpower not to roll his eyes. “Yes, I’m aware. It’s not the wand itself, you idiot, it’s the way you hold it.”

This draws a look of confusion in response. “What do you mean? I just…hold it.”

“You’ve acne and your voice is low, but you’ve not had a growth spurt, not yet. So, you’re likely somewhere in the beginning stages of puberty, which happens around the age of thirteen for most boys. So, thirteen years old. You’ve been at Hogwarts two years, then. That’s long enough for anyone to grow complacent, and—well, look at you.”

The boy looks down at his robes and then back up. “What about me?”

“You hold your wand like it’s delicate, precious. Most people who grow up around magic take it for granted. It is a part of their everyday life; they do not recognize their own privilege. You, however, cradle your wand like it is something invaluable. You’re still grateful to be here because magic still amazes you,” Sherlock nods. “Muggleborn, then. And you went straight for your wand once you got here—not because you were angry, but because you need comfort after getting into a fist fight. Someone said something they ought not to have said about your heritage.”

“He called me a Mudblood,” the boy answers, his voice flat. He rests the back of his head against the wall and sighs. “I came here thinking that I’d finally found my place, you know? Turns out, people are terrible everywhere.”

“Well, that is one sentiment with which I can absolutely agree,” Sherlock says.

The boy smiles at him—some tiny, barely formed thing—and before Sherlock knows it, he’s smiling in return.

The door to the Headmistress’s office slowly slides open. McGonagall stands in the frame, giving him a dubious look. “Mr. Holmes? I’m ready to speak to you.”

“Thank Merlin,” Sherlock mutters to himself. He stands and gives a wave to the boy in the hallway.

“My name’s John,” the boy says, hurriedly. “John Watson.”

Sherlock barely manages to reply with his own name before McGonagall grabs him by the collar and drags him into the stairwell, the door to the office closing behind them both.

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been thinking about this scene for a month and then decided to try and write it forty minutes before the end of the fuckyeahteenlock Potterlock contest because I don't know, I'm extremely smart or something.
> 
> It needed to be in by 11:59 EST--depending on the time stamp, not sure I made it. But either way, I had fun writing it. Plus, I rather like how it turned out.
> 
> No plans to continue. Hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you think, either here or on my tumblr!


End file.
